


Stay On

by two (nowstfucallicles)



Category: Midsomer Murders - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Boss/Employee Relationship, First Kiss, Friendship/Love, Getting Together, M/M, Middlesbrough, POV Barnaby, Post-Season/Series 07, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:49:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23382592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowstfucallicles/pseuds/two
Summary: Something happened between them, right before Troy went to Middlesbrough...
Relationships: Tom Barnaby/Gavin Troy
Comments: 83
Kudos: 52
Collections: Midsomer_Melee





	1. Chapter 1

He slows the car and glances over to the ringing phone. He can’t see the caller ID, and though he doubts it’ll be worth stopping for, he still rolls to the roadside. It’s the middle of nowhere. Wheat fields left and right. He reaches for the phone and lets out a soft whistle, surprised.

“Hello Gavin,” he says. 

“Hello… Tom.” 

Just a couple of weeks since the transfer. Not that many reasons, Tom thinks, for a junior inspector to ring up his old DCI. He didn’t expect to hear from him. Not this soon.

“You on your way home?” Gavin asks. 

“Just started back,” he says. “A minor B and E, but the village is all the way across the county. And you?”

“Crown Court. Might head back for a bit now, get another report off my desk.”

Busy schedule, Tom notes. It’s probably not a social phone call, then. 

“Always liked one thing,” he says, “about working in the city. Short distances.” 

“Your B and E, something interesting at least?”

“Not unless you count a stolen lawnmower.” 

There is a snort on the other end and Tom smiles. You’d have been bored silly, he thinks. In the brief silence he hears the traffic in the background. A parking lot, by the sound of it. Perhaps Gavin’s called to talk about the trial. He’s never lead in a court case before. Probably wants to run something by him.

“So, this trial…“ Tom says.

“Triple murder.” It’s a brag, then he back-pedals a bit. “My predecessor’s case. Trial’s already started by the time I came in. Looks like it’s going to be a long one. ”

“A high-profile case? Not bad for a start.”

“Can’t complain.” Casual tone, but Tom picks up a tension, barely there. He looks out into the fields, into the low afternoon sun.

“You in a hurry?” Gavin asks.

“No.”

It’s been a long day and there’s still an hour-long drive ahead. Still, he can spare a few minutes.

He thinks of the last time he’s seen Troy. The day before he left, in his emptied-out flat. He thinks of it often, if he’s honest, and it doesn’t take anything away from it. He remembers how it felt, as if it's just happened. Troy, pressed against him. Held. And then slowly, frantically, the kiss. He did nothing to stop it, nothing at all.

Tom turns off the engine and leans back into the seat. No. He’s not expected to hear from him, after that.

“Middlesbrough’s alright,” Troy says, and Tom blinks at the shift in topic. “Different than it was. Less rough.”

“I think I’ve never been.”

Perhaps he’s run into some trouble with the new governor, Tom thinks. And he wants advice. 

“Department’s in good shape,” Troy says. “Loads of new equipment, new cyber unit. The DCS runs a tight ship.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Asked me if I’m as good as my final assessment says.”

Tom laughs. Doesn’t sound like he’s in trouble. Far from it. He can hear the grin in Troy’s voice and he imagines him sitting in his car, there in the parking lot. It’s not as though he doesn’t know the feeling. He does. It’s never too far away these days, either. He wants to see him. He’s been wanting to see him.

“He had a look at my reports,” Troy says, “and I guess I passed muster.”

“And the cases you’re getting?”

“Apart from the trial, homicide and a couple of armed robberies. Nearly done with them.”

“Sounds like you’re settling in alright,” Tom says.

“I am, yeah...” Another pause, and Tom can tell Troy is about to cut to the chase. “You could come around sometime. Up to Middlesbrough.” 

The pause that follows is Tom’s. Would have been a simple question, a few weeks ago. With a simple answer. 

“Of course,” he says. “Be happy to.” But that’s not all.

On the other end, Troy lets out a small breath. 

“When did you have in mind?” Tom asks. 

“The weekend after next?”

“I’ll talk to Joyce and Cully. They’ll be thrilled.”

“They — that’s…” Troy goes quiet for a moment, and Tom waits. “I thought…” Here the silence stretches, and despite himself Tom presses the phone to his ear. “Just you.”

There is a silence and Tom nods slowly, to himself. All the small talk. Their usual little remarks. And he still has no idea what made Troy call him in the first place. What he knows is, he cannot let things get out of hand. Not like he did that time. _Just you._

He looks along the road. Not one car has passed him by since he’s stopped. Why this call? The invitation? And then it appears to him that perhaps... most likely, Troy doesn’t know it himself. That he might not know what he’s asking for, what it is exactly he wants from Tom right now... except for this one thing. To see him. 

“How’s Saturday?” Tom asks. 

“Good,” Troy says at once. “Saturday’s good. Around two?”

“Alright…”

Tom moves in his seat, somewhat uncomfortably. There’s another huff of breath, on the other end. He can just about see Troy puffing his cheeks – relief? Anticipation? And there it is, again, that same feeling. It has no right to be as strong as it is. To be pulling at him as it does. He wants…

“I’ll get going,” he says. He turns on the engine and, phone still in hand, turns the car towards the road.

“Right,” Troy says. “I’ve got the report to finish…”

Tom blinks against the sun and checks the satnav. Low traffic, no alerts. The time estimate nearly the same as before.

“See you soon.”


	2. Chapter 2

Traffic is slow on the M18. He’s closed the window and turned on the AC, feeling the cool, stale air on his face. A four-hour drive, up to Middlesbrough. On a Saturday. Probably wasn’t the best idea... He watches the cars ahead, moving in and out between the lorries. Still, it could be worse. Troy could have taken that other job even further up North.

He wonders if Troy’s gotten up yet. He does like to sleep in on the weekend. There have been quite a few times when Tom’s rung him out of bed, on a day like this. Some important case, some PR job, and at last Troy would appear in the door, unsuspecting, bleary-eyed. In his old sports t-shirt. He’d gulp down the coffee Tom’s brought and hurry back up – “five minutes, Sir”.

He didn’t think he’d hear from Troy. Certainly didn’t think Troy would want to see him.

There’s another exit coming up. Four more to go. His eyes stray over the industrial sprawl that follows along the road. Warehouses, billboards. Blocks of corrugated iron shining in the midday sun. He’s always made a point of getting on with his sergeants. It pays off. Makes for better results. Even now, most of his former juniors still keep in touch. They’ve all made inspector or higher – he gets their Christmas cards every year. Whenever he runs into one, after a seminar or meeting, they make sure to buy him a drink. 

It’s how it’s supposed to be. How he likes it. He’s missed the mark on that, hasn’t he – with Troy? There is no taking back, no undoing what happened between them. He can see himself in the mirror, frowning. Squinting against the sun. He regrets it. Of course. But probably not as much as he should.

This thing with Troy, it’s not new. Before that evening, he’s not given it much thought. It’s human nature, he thought – a heart can want. It can want something, someone, quite strongly even, and know that nothing will ever happen. He knew nothing would happen. And apart from the embarrassment before himself, it wasn’t a bad thing – to feel something like this. To want.

He didn’t see it coming, on that evening. He reaches down, takes a drink of the coffee growing cold in the cupholder. That one time, he got blindsided.

Two more exits. He has little hope that the A1 will be better. He puts down the coffee, stretches his neck. He thinks of that evening. The day before Troy left.

It was a spontaneous idea. He just grabbed a bottle of Scotch, just any bottle, and drove over. He thought it would be nice to see him off. He found him alone, the flat nearly empty, with boxes stacked up against the wall. The only place still with a light was the kitchen. That’s where they sat, passing the bottle back and forth between them for lack of glasses. Troy was in good spirits. A bit tired, perhaps. 

“I think it’s time you called me Tom,” he said. Everything else would have been silly now, but then he saw Troy’s grin light up. The surprise. He was chuffed to bits, then almost forgot to return the gesture. As Tom watched him, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like - what it would have been like. Just once. To kiss that warm grin off of him.

After a while, they’d exhausted all the anecdotes. Their usual back and forth. It had gotten late, and they’d been putting it off long enough, the goodbye. They stood in the dark of the hall, exchanging parting niceties. Well-wishes, jokingly, then not jokingly. He saw Troy’s face just well enough – tight-lipped, his eyes wide and round – to know Troy had been caught off guard. That he’d thought it would be easier. That it wouldn’t be as tough as this, to leave. So, without any preamble, Tom pulled him close. He pulled him into his arm, firmly. His hand went up to the back of Troy’s neck and he held him, just for a moment. He felt him go still. Then, slowly, Troy put his arms around him. 

There was a quiet. A strange, dense quiet as Tom held him. Then Troy began to move, to turn his face towards him. Tom didn’t look up. Didn’t let go of him, just tilted his head, very slightly. It was like feeling one’s way in the dark. He knew that just a little longer, just a little more, and he wouldn’t be able to deny it. Troy was breathing against his mouth, moving closer, but not daring to, not yet. Then Tom kissed him. Kissed him first, slowly, with his eyes shut. He was tracing Troy’s cheek, feeling his mouth open. Feeling him want...

He’s nearly missed his exit. He hits the indicator and slips into the lane, heading for the junction. Then after that, it was a quick goodbye. They leant apart, there in the dark hall, and already Troy could not look him in the eye. That’s when Tom regretted it. Sharply, at once. It's why he didn’t expect to hear from Troy. 

Even now, he’s not sure what this visit is going to be.

The traffic on the A1 is crawling, and he opens the window again, lets in some of the warm, rubber-smelling air. Perhaps this is what Middlesbrough smells like.


	3. Chapter 3

He steps out of the car. A four-hour drive that has left him with a tightness in his neck. He rubs it with his hand, looking around the hot, sunlit street. It’s a nice neighbourhood. From what he’s seen, one of the quieter corners of Middlesbrough. He spots the house right away. A well-kept semi, in front of which Troy’s old car looks like an unlikely visitor.

He asks himself, not for the first time… is this a good idea? 

As he walks up to the house, the front door opens. And there’s Troy, with a nod and a smile. 

“Hello Tom.”

“Hello Gavin.” Tom looks up, smiling back at him. Doesn’t quite roll off the tongue yet, the first name. 

“You get here alright?”

“I did.” He steps in after Gavin. The hall is cool and dim, and he glances around, taking in the new place. “This is a nice house…”

“Still needs a few finishing touches…” 

Tom notices there are boxes, stacked up against the wall. From the move, still not opened. Must be the court case, he thinks. Heavy workload at the new job, with no time to get settled. It’s not a bad sign, though, for a newly transferred inspector. It means they trust him to know what he’s doing. 

“Well, let’s see it,” he says.

He gets a quick tour of the place. It’s an old house, mercifully cool. Small rooms, big windows, the parquet floor, redone, creaking under their steps. It looks hastily furnished, not quite lived in yet. Still, a good home. There’s a stretch of green out in the back. 

In the living room, Troy opens the blinds, and for the first time, Tom takes a longer look at him. The usual weekend shirt. Razor burns on the neck. He looks tired, but there’s a restlessness there – his shoulders are slightly up. Could be work, Tom thinks. Could be something else. 

He’s still not sure this is a good idea. It is good, however, to see him... 

“Would you like something to drink?” Troy asks.

“Some water, please.” 

“I got us something to eat, if you…”

“Oh, thank you. Maybe later.”

There’s a pause. For a moment Troy hovers by the door, looking back at him. He’s looking for something, Tom thinks. Trying to figure it out. To find out where they stand with each other – when, really, it’s simple. What happened between them wasn’t subtle, it wasn’t ambiguous, just like what they’re doing now isn’t. It’s a tacit agreement. They’re acting as if nothing happened, and so far, making a convincing job of it. It is the best way, moving forward.

Troy heads for the kitchen, and Tom slowly paces around the room. There is a small table near the window that caught his eye right away. It’s not a place to eat. More of a desk, a work desk, covered with stacks of paper. There are files, notes. A laptop he can hear humming, and a pair of headphones.

Troy returns, with two glasses of water, and Tom gives him a questioning glance.

“A triple murder,” Troy says, motioning towards the table. “Took it over when I started here. Did I tell you?”

“Your court case, yes. It’s been in the press, too. Not a bad one to get started with…”

“You’re following it, then?” Troy glances at him over his glass, briefly. As if it doesn’t matter, either way.

“I am, religiously.” He stresses the irony, even though there’s no need for it. Troy’s first big case – of course he’s following it. 

Troy sets down the glass, pulls back his shoulders. “The next court dates should be interesting. Hard to tell when I’ll be up, so I’m making sure I have the whole thing prepared.”

“What’s the judge like?” Tom asks. “Don’t think I know him.”

“Bit of a stickler, from what I’ve seen. Thought it’d be best to put in a bit of extra work.”

“Won’t hurt. Not the easiest thing, coming in this far into a case.”

Still, Troy should be alright. For a moment, it’s almost like one of their lunch meetings. Like he’s checking in with Troy at the end of shift. Over the last few months, he let him work more and more cases by himself. Wanted to see how he’d do. They’d meet, compare notes, and while Tom would still lead, technically – he knew he’d have to start looking for a new sergeant, sooner than he’d thought. 

He looks at Troy, and here, it does get a little subtle. He wants to… They’re standing quite close, and for a moment he wants to reach over. Run his hand along Troy’s back. Slowly, the way he did that time. It’s a rather harmless thought. But then, a good part of it is. He remembers how it felt, his hand resting against Troy’s neck. Holding him…

He turns away slightly, looking down at the table in front him. 

“How far along are you,” he asks, “with preparation for the trial?” 

“Going through all the interviews right now, start to finish.”

“Ah, that’s why you set up shop here.” 

Department’s probably a bit noisy. Then something occurs to Tom. He reaches down and picks up the headphones from the table. He sees some folders with interview transcripts, placed neatly next to them. 

“You’re listening to the recordings as well?” he asks.

“That’s the thing,” Troy says. “It’s taking ages.”

Tom raises his eyebrows. “There must be, what, days’ worth of tape?” He’s not Troy’s boss anymore. Not familiar with the case, nor has he been asked to give his opinion. Still… “Of course, you can do it on your own time. But are you sure it’s necessary?”

A look of surprise crosses Troy’s face. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re reading the transcript,” Tom says. “You don’t think that’s enough?”

Troy opens his mouth, and for a moment he seems to be debating whether or not he should say it.

“It’s not what I’ve learnt… from you.”

He’s is not being facetious. Not looking to press any buttons, Tom can tell. He leans back somewhat and watches Troy.

“One of our first cases,” Troy says. “Remember, the old Priory? You told me to dig up the suspect’s record…”

“I remember the case…” Tom says.

“Everything I could find… you told me to learn as much as I could about the geezer. Have the audio sent in, if there’s video, get the video. I remember, you said…” He grimaces, and a warmth comes into his voice. “Try and listen, Sergeant.”

Tom watches him, amused. “And you did.”

“Didn’t really have a choice, did I?”

Always a little strange, Tom thinks, to have your own teachings catch up with you. Especially if it’s the kind of advice he’s always given more willingly than taken. 

“At my age, you tend to rely on your intuition, more than anything else,” he says. He places the headphones back on the table. “But that’s for old coppers. You’re right. I’d be listening to those tapes, too, if I were you.”

“Still not my favourite part of the job,” Troy says.

There is a silence, a different kind of silence that settles between them. Tom’s glance lingers, just a bit too long. There is that spot on Troy’s cheek, still hot from the hurried shave. His collar hangs open, and Tom wants to pull him close. Open one more button, just one. It’d do. A kiss, right there, to the base of his throat. 

The worst part is – and this is what changed, a couple of weeks ago – he can imagine Troy. Leaning down to meet him. Dazed, a bit too eager. He didn’t see him, then, in the dark of the hall. But he can imagine it. 

He rouses himself. It didn’t use to be like this. It used to be more in the back of his mind. Used to be quieter. It’s the newness of it, still, he thinks. It should take care of itself with time. 

He crosses his arms, takes a sideways look at Troy.

“Admittedly, it’s a shocking idea,” he says, “that you might actually have been paying attention to me, all these years.”

There is a faint grimace from Troy. He’s been fidgeting with the headphones, and now he puts them down. He turns towards Tom. And just by that, and the way he won’t meet Tom’s eye, Tom can tell – their tacit agreement is coming to an end.

Troy touches his arm, a bit above the wrist. His hand is cool, Tom can feel it through his shirt. It slowly settles. Slowly curls around his arm.


	4. Chapter 4

He glances down at Troy’s hand, resting on his arm. And it’s not the touch. It’s not the sudden feel of him, either. It’s the rashness of it. The initiative, so like him, well-timed, but then with little to follow it up… Tom takes a moment to school his features. He wants to be quite careful about this, and quite clear. 

He can’t blame Troy. Not for the impulsivity. Certainly not for what he wants. Some sort of acknowledgement of what happened between them. Some sort of... answer.

There is only one Tom can give him. They move on. Back to normal. They forget it ever happened. He looks Troy in the eye. Nothing more, looks him straight in the eye and holds his gaze until Troy looks away. Until his hand slips quietly from Tom’s arm. He looks caught out, just for a moment, then he shifts and takes a step back.

“How about you get me up to speed?” Tom says. He keeps his voice light, conversational. “On your case. For old times’ sake.”

There is a slight pause before Troy asks: “What do you want to know?” 

“What motive are you going with, for a start?”

Troy glances at him, with a slow grin. “Greed. We’re making a case that it’s all about the inheritance…”

“Going by the press, there are a number of possible motives.”

“Yeah, but greed is the strongest one for premeditation,” Troy says. “CPS wasn’t too keen on either passion or opportunity.”

“I see.” Tom nods. It’s a common practice, and probably the right call.

“You think I ought to have tried to convince them otherwise?” Troy asks.

“Depends on whether you think greed is the strongest motive in the case.”

“Don’t you…?”

Tom smiles, allowing for just a bit of fondness. “Doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“It is,” Troy says. “It’s the strongest motive we have.”

With that, he walks over to the window, sinks his hands into his pockets, and starts filling Tom in. It’s a nasty case, and an interesting one, just the way Tom likes them. There is intrigue. A fairly sophisticated M.O. Three grisly murders. Quite the case for a junior inspector to get his hands on.

For a while Tom listens. Then he asks Troy a few questions. Not for the benefit of his own curiosity, more in the way a pedantic judge would, or a somewhat sharp defender. Stressing some specific detail. Misconstruing a link. He finds that Troy rarely misses a beat. His preparation is solid – he should do well in court. That’s right, Tom thinks, opposition tends to bring out the best in him.

Once they’re done with the case, they have a bite. Some pork pie and salad, both good, then Troy takes him around to the city centre. It’s every bit as bleak as he imagined it. Looming remnants of industry, filled in with crowded shops, fast food places. At least, when the breeze rises towards the evening, it carries the smell of the sea. They have a pint in the shades. The people in the street are hurrying home, and Tom can’t help but wonder who, other than a true native, would really want to live in this city. It's one of Troy’s little sentimentalities… 

They stop by the police station, but don’t get out. It doesn’t quite seem to be the time for handshakes and introductions. It’s a modern building, busy-looking. The stark opposite of Causton station. Reminds Tom a little of his own beginnings, and what it was like, getting ready for shift on a Saturday night. 

By the time they get back, the heat is lifting. The brick houses in Troy’s street glow red and the breeze from the sea keeps flowing in. They stand in the street, and he tells Troy he’s heading home now. He doesn’t want to get back too late. 

He had this idea, that coming here would help to put to rest what happened between them. If anything, being around Troy only made the memory of it more tangible. More vivid. The feel of him. How they both, for a moment, wanted the same thing. It’s probably for the better that they won’t see each other for a while. Time has a way of taking care of things.

Troy has a light sunburn, and his back slumps somewhat as they say goodbye. Tom puts his hand on his shoulder, gives it a slow press. He feels the dampness there, the slight roll of Troy’s shoulder. For a moment, his mind goes elsewhere. For a moment, he lets it. Then he gives Troy a clap on his arm – “Oh, and good luck with your case”.

As he gets into the car, he can feel a tiredness coming on. He takes a breath of the dense, hot air, remembering he needs to vacuum the car. Maybe tomorrow… He is about to start the engine when suddenly the car door opens. 

Troy gets into the passenger seat. He shuts the door and then turns towards Tom, and there is a sense of hushed urgency about him. A sudden, barely-checked excitement. Tom lets go of the keys and groans softly. He has an idea where this is going, but he waits anyway, turning towards Troy.

“Listen,” Troy says. “This… I mean, this…”

He is gesturing between them, looking at Tom, his eyes bright and searching. Tom waits. 

“You should know that I…” Troy’s voice drops now, but there is still the same urgency. “That I’m…”

Tom watches him, with a sudden stirring of tenderness. He can tell Troy never had to say anything like this. Never came down to it. No… of course not. 

“It’s alright,” Tom says.

Troy’s eyes are wide, and his sunburn pales a little as he opens his mouth again, still determined.

“Can we,” he says, “...talk inside?”

Tom shakes his head. Then he says it, quietly. 

“No…”

Even now, his hand almost moves. Almost reaches over, almost wants to rest against Troy’s cheek.

“We can’t,” he says, and now he can tell it’s sinking in.

Not just what he said. But what he needs Troy to understand. He can see the change in Troy, it’s like something is draining from him. He’s still sitting there, his shoulders slightly up, and then he looks away, stares out the windscreen.

They sit like that for a while, then Troy opens the door. It’s a different goodbye this time, quick and muttered, then he gets out. The car door closes, and Tom looks after him as he walks back to the house.

He leans back, watching the empty street in the evening light. For a moment there is something like relief there. Small and hollow. 

He does have his answer now, to his own question. It wasn’t a good idea, to come.


	5. Chapter 5

He doesn’t drive. He sits in the car. Hands on the wheel, but the motor isn’t running. The heat of the day is still trapped inside, and he can feel his shirt stick to his back.

He can’t say when he knew. It was probably the winter before last. Those slow and cold months when they were glad for anything that got them out of the station. Any smashed store front, any visiting London heavy – they’d keep the interviews long, eat at the local pub, talk things over by the frozen window. Work every case until there was nothing left. It was then perhaps, that he first had that feeling. That he thought he’d maybe seen something, an expression crossing Troy’s face. A smile. A pause. That left him with an idea that something was there. Something new. Something between them that perhaps, one day, would need his attention.

It came slowly, as it does. Unmistakably. He wasn’t above flattery, and it did flatter him, at least a little, to notice the odd lingering gaze. To just barely catch that flicker. That charged curiosity. To suddenly see Troy dawdling at the end of shift. See him drink his wine just a little too hastily – hunched over a bunch of old exams at Tom’s kitchen table. He would be gone soon, Tom already knew it, they had no way of keeping him as DI. So, for a while, he enjoyed those preparation evenings. That bit of misplaced admiration. Impressionability, really. 

He didn’t take it seriously. Not even when things began to change. When Troy began having more of those nights out, spending more weekends in London, not just for the prep courses. When each Friday a different girl would pick him up from shift. And still, each Monday, he’d be on time. And in the quiet of their morning drive, Tom would catch a glimpse of it. Of that strange little emotion, still, just as badly concealed as the hangover. Tom would reach into the car door, without saying anything, and hand him a bottle of water. 

There is a bottle of water in the door now. Warm, but Tom drinks anyway. He looks down at his watch. Unless the motorways are jammed, he should be back in Causton before ten. 

He didn’t allow for anything to change between them. Never gave Troy reason to think he had any idea. During last summer, he often had him over after work. He would test him, and after some barbecue, they’d sit in the garden, just the two of them. It was those nights when he thought that perhaps he ought to have kept a closer look on himself, rather than Troy. That taking it lightly, clearly hadn’t saved him from the embarrassment. That he did, quite seriously, quite simply, after all these years… want him. That was what it had come down to.

Nothing was further from his mind than to give in to it. The only thing he allowed himself, if it counted at all, was occasionally staying home on a Sunday morning. He would lock the bathroom door and turn on the shower. Sometimes he just stood under the spray and thought. And sometimes, leaning away from it, he took care of himself, with an impatience he didn’t know he still had, until he sank panting against the tiles. It was all he did. All he was ever going to do. That, and wondering vaguely, while drying himself off, if Troy had ever done the same. 

Indeed, he wondered how much Troy understood about himself. How much of that was still ahead of him… When he passed his exam, Tom took him down to the pub. It was one of the very few times he got drunk with him. Really, properly sloshed. He listened to him go on about the new job, about the offers he’d gotten so far, this city or that one – “Can’t be a country copper forever, sir, no offense…” Tom smiled, both his sleeves soaked in ale, and it was one of those times when he felt nothing but pride. A great deal of it. He was happy for Troy. It was the way things were supposed to be.

He takes out his handkerchief and wipes his neck and forehead. A patrol car passes him by, an ARV, and he watches it as it rolls slowly down the street. Showing presence. Doesn’t get more city than that, he thinks. It’s time he got on his way.

What happened between them that evening… He didn’t see it coming. He knows that Troy didn’t, either. Suddenly, they got so close to it, so close to what they knew they would never touch – that they did. He doesn’t blame Troy, not for a second. But it does say something about himself, that he let it happen.

Whatever else he’s been guilty of over the years. Little flirts. Little fascinations. It’s nothing like that. He puts his hands back on the wheel. For a moment, his knuckles are white as he glances down at them. He knows that just now, he nearly, very nearly, let Troy finish what he meant to say. It wouldn’t have told him anything he doesn’t know already. But his own reaction, even if he had downplayed, lied. It might have told Troy…

For a while he looks out into the street, thinking. Then he reaches down, takes another drink of warm water. He turns the key in the ignition, and the lights on the dashboard flicker on, just for a moment.

It does say something about him, that he’s still here.


	6. Chapter 6

The breeze catches the car door and it slams shut behind him. He locks it, feeling the cool air against his neck as he crosses the street. There are people chatting across a garden fence. Faint noise, carrying over from a nearby pool or playground. He walks over to Troy’s house, and like before, the door opens before he gets to it. 

Troy looks outside, puzzled. He looks flushed, it’s the sunburn, and his hair is sticking out where he’s run his hand through it. He is about to say something, but then he just lets Tom in.

The hall is dim, and Tom glances around while his eyes adjust. He couldn’t drive away. Couldn’t. He knows that if he had, it would have been for good. That would have been the end of it. The door closes behind him, cutting off the current of air and street noise, and he turns towards Troy.

“You want to come in…?” Troy has that expression. As though he is about to be told something he doesn’t want to hear.

“No, thanks.” Tom pauses slightly. “I won’t be long.”

He watches Troy, thinking this is as bad a time as any…

“Something wrong?” Troy asks. “If there’s something with the car, I can call someone, get it sorted.”

"No need.”

Tom walks over to him, slowly. And he makes sure it’s there. That it shows, for once, the very thing he’s never shown to him, that he’s never let him see. It takes a few moments, and he watches Troy’s expression change. His face goes blank, and there is a dazed sort of realization. A flicker, Tom knows it. Recognizes it.

He wants to reach over. To touch him. And this time, it’s different. It’s not in the heat of the moment. Not because he is getting carried away. His hand goes up to Troy’s shoulder, settles on the back of his neck. And again, he waits. Troy shifts closer, slowly. He leans forward, his head brushing against Tom’s. His smell is sharp and warm, and Tom moves closer still.

“Troy…”

It gets away from him, softly. Like an endearment. He strokes the back of Troy’s neck, the short stubble there. 

He can feel Troy tense. It’s barely there, but Tom tilts his head back and looks at him. There is something cornered, in the way Troy meets his gaze. Something jumpy. Slowly, Tom shifts his hand. He touches his fingers to Troy’s lips. Very lightly, and he doesn’t know why it does what it does, but Troy heaves a deep breath. And as he takes away his fingers, Troy kisses him. 

Tom holds him by the shoulders, it’s sudden, almost natural, and he closes his eyes. Kisses him. He couldn’t drive away. He knew what it would have meant. The odd phone call. The yearly Christmas card. The two of them, catching up on a weekend seminar every now and then. He couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t settle, for that.

Troy’s mouth opens against his. His hand is on Tom’s chest, grabbing on to his shirt, and Tom kisses into him. He is not used to being wanted, to this heat, the urgency. He is not used to getting what he wants. They know each other too well, he thinks, too thoroughly, for it to be like this. And still. The feeling takes root in him, turns something over he didn’t know was still there. 

There are moments when they nearly stop, when it’s just a thin, panting brush of lips. His hand pulls at Troy’s shirt, tugging it loose. He feels his way in, runs his fingers along Troy’s side, down his back. He feels him shudder. Feels him freeze, just for a moment. That stretch of his lower back, just above the belt, Tom gives it a slow rub. Nothing more. Just a taste of it, just a feel. 

He opens his eyes. He wants to look at him. Troy's gaze is deep-blue, unfocused, and he looks as if he’s just been roused. His hands are on Tom’s back, sliding down as they let go of him, bit by bit. Tom leans back. Shifts, until he feels the cool wall behind him. He presses his lips together, and he nearly leans in. Nearly kisses him again. 

He knows it, even now. He knows he shouldn’t have done it - shouldn't have so much as entertained the thought. He should have gone, simple as that. 

He touches Troy’s cheek. Finds him grinning back at him, something faint, something like relief. There's something else, too. Tom pulls back his hand. The light that filters in through the door reminds him of the time, and the drive ahead of him. 

“I need to get going,” he says. He feels over his shirt, tugs it back into shape. 

“I don’t want it to end.”

Tom stops short, and he looks at him. Really looks at him. Then he pats his pockets and takes out the car keys. Me neither, he wants to say. We’ll think of something. The silence stretches, and in the end, he doesn’t have an answer.


	7. Chapter 7

He locks the car and holds the paper above his head as he hurries to the house. The way it’s pouring down, he won’t have to do any watering in the garden. He looks out, shaking off his jacket, and just when he is about to shut the door, he sees Troy’s car. Hears it, too, as it slams over the speed bump by the driveway. Tom waits, holding the door slightly open. 

Troy waves to him. He has one of those briefcases with the shoulder strap, and he comes running over, careful about missing the puddles. Tom smiles at him as he opens the door. It’s good. Very good, to see him.

“Gavin. Come in.”

“Tom.” Troy steps through, grinning, his briefcase in hand. “Thanks…”

“How was the drive?”

“Alright. Finished early with a suspect and got through just fine.”

“Go on. You know where everything is.”

They go through to the kitchen, and Tom leaves the paper to dry on the counter. He hangs up his jacket. For a moment there is a strange normality to it. It’s like they’re right back where they were. Like they’ve gotten off late, and Tom invited him over for dinner. If not for the shades under Troy’s eyes, and the way he stands by the counter, a little aimlessly, it’s like very little has changed. 

“Coffee?” Tom asks.

“Yes, please.” Troy looks at him. “And… thank you, for this.”

“No need to thank me. I’m doing it strictly out of curiosity.” 

He is, at least in part. Troy’s triple murder, he’s taken an interest in it from the beginning. It’s one of those cases – if he were the chief superintendent, he probably would have given it to someone with more experience. He knows that the trial is at a critical stage. If something is giving Troy a headache, he’s more than willing to help. 

“So, how are things?” Troy asks.

“Not bad. We had a series of break-ins, but other than that, it’s been quiet…”

“Bit too quiet?”

“It would be for you.” Tom puts on the kettle. Gets out the coffee powder. “Oh, Cully will be coming home for a while. Causton Playhouse, believe it or not.”

“Must be thrilled,” Troy says. “And where’s Mrs B.?”

“At her parents’, helping out. Fit as a fiddle, both of them, but you know her…”

It’s where she is on most Fridays. Some housework, bit of cooking. She usually stays with them until after the evening news. Tom glances out into the garden where the rain seems to be getting heavier.

“Tell her I said hello,” Troy says. “And Cully, too.”

“I will.”

Troy heads over to the cupboard, and Tom can see it, from the corner of his eye. That bit of hesitation. Troy is wondering if it’s alright, if he can help himself – if he’s still that kind of guest here. He is. Of course he is… It’s just a moment, then Troy continues. He sets the cups on the table, takes the milk out of the fridge. And again, it seems like very little has changed.

Tom flicks on the lights before they sit down. The coffee is steeping, and Troy takes the files from his briefcase and spreads them out on the table. His hair is still damp, sticking to his face. It’s been a long week, Tom can tell. And there are more long weeks ahead for him. It’s a good thing he came to him for help. Probably about time, too. 

“When’s the next court date?” Tom asks, putting on his reading glasses.

“Two weeks.”

“So, whatever’s wrong with the witness’ story…”

“I need to get it straight until then, yeah.”

Tom picks up a file, the one with the most notes sticking out. “Where do we start?”

“Those are background checks and cross-references on all the witnesses.”

“Says here on the label. But thank you for clarifying, Inspector.”

“It’s…” Troy looks at him. There’s a small smile. “It’s a good place to start.”

Tom takes the file. He pours them both some coffee. Takes the lid off the biscuit tin and pushes it over to Troy. And while Troy begins to read what looks like the forensics report, Tom watches him for a bit. 

Three months. Three months since he’s seen him. It seems both longer and shorter than that. It’s a strange thing – the desk across from his at the station, he still thinks of it as Troy’s. It’s rare for him to head out in the morning and get into his car, and not think of him. What he’s doing. If he’s already off to work. He chalks it off to sentimentality. Some people get cynical with age, with him, it seems to be the other way round. He knows it was the right decision. Even on these mornings in the car, he knows there is no other way…

He opens the file in front of him. He watches Troy, just a bit longer, as he silently mutters to himself while he reads. It’s what he does, when he has trouble concentrating. They sit close, and this, too, is a thing of habit. It’s routine, almost. And for a moment Tom’s thoughts go back, to that day in Middlesbrough. To the suddenness, the rush of it. The warmth of skin as he slipped his hand under Troy’s shirt. That faint, heated sound.

“Just tell me what you think,” Troy says, without glancing up. “Anything that doesn’t fit the picture, anything that’s weird…”

Tom looks down at the file in front of him. Three months. It’s still so vivid, he wonders if it'll ever be anything else. He puts his hand on the file and begins to read.

He’s already familiar with the case. From what he’s seen in the papers. From what he knows from Troy. What he needs to do now, is sift through the details. It’s a solid case. Carefully built. Still, he’s seen cases like this come apart in trial. All it takes is one loose end. Something that got overlooked, that left just enough room for doubt. Whatever it is, they need to find it.

He picks up another file, the one with the interviews. The defence has dug up some dirt on the main witness. An old story, but if they find a way to poke holes into her testimony, if they manage to discredit her, it could bring down the whole case. There is something she says, Tom keeps going back to it. It sounds like a lie. According to forensics, it’s not. But the way she says it…

“She’s lying,” he says, and Troy looks up from the forensics file. “I don’t know why. Only that she is.”

Troy leans over and quickly reads the part where Tom is pointing. He nods.

“You think that’s what the defence is going for?”

“Exactly,” Tom says. “You need to talk to her. Show her the forensic evidence. Ask her why she’s lying about something we have proof of, when that could invalidate her entire testimony.”

“I will,” Troy says, nodding again. “I’m talking to her tomorrow.”

“Let’s see the test results for this. Should be somewhere in there…” He reaches over and turns Troy’s file to himself. It’s right there, the part he’s looking for. Marked with a post-it and a question mark.

Tom pulls it closer and reads. He’s halfway through when he stops. He blinks, looks into the other file again, then back at the marked page. He slowly raises his head.

“You already know this… don’t you?”

He can see at once that he’s right. It’s the way Troy looks at him.

“When did you find out?” Tom frowns. A touch of irritance, he doesn’t appreciate being led on. What’s more, he has no idea why.

“Couple of days ago,” Troy says.

“And now you’re here… to, what, have me confirm it for you?”

“I was looking at the report. It just… came to me.” 

“And that's a good thing. Really is.” He means it, and there is a pause before he adds: “But why this little charade?” 

Troy leans back in his chair. He puts his hand behind his head, looking thoughtful. The hint of a grin, uneasy.

“I didn’t know if you’d still…”

Tom watches him, silently. Didn’t know if you could still come, he thinks. Now that you don’t need to ask for help. Troy leans forward again, and his voice is quiet, tense. 

“I wanted to see you.” 

They have talked on the phone, a couple of times in the past months. Each time, Troy has asked him the same question, and each time, he has gotten the same answer from him. What happened between them couldn’t continue. There was no way. It shouldn’t have happened, in the first place. Tom told him to let it go. He told him there were other people, better suited for him.

He could tell him all that. Again. Except he doesn’t think it would change a thing. He knows Troy. Perhaps he knows him better than anyone. His character. His stubbornness. That he is used to being told no, and all too used to being told no by Tom. It’s rarely held him back. Not when it mattered. Not when he’s made up his mind, when he thought he knew better. He thinks he does now, Tom can tell. Just by looking at him.

“You did, did you?” Tom mutters. 

He glances down at his watch. It’s dark outside, but it’s only the storm. Still an hour, until the evening news. His hand moves slowly to Troy’s thigh. He leaves it there. Just feels him, for a bit. He watches as Troy’s eyes widen, the excitement that builds there, and for the first time. He just leaves himself to it.


	8. Chapter 8

Troy leans over. Kisses him, lightly. It shouldn’t be as easy as it is. Shouldn’t feel as good, just this first taste of him. Tom dips his head to meet him, and Troy moves closer, pulling his chair up. It’s still light, his lips brushing against Tom’s, almost as if to wear him down. But there is something else, too. A wavering. Troy is hesitating, and Tom glances up at him with a stirring of sympathy. 

He presses Troy’s thigh. Just presses it, firmly, while leaning slightly away from him. He lets Troy come. Lets him shift closer and kiss him again. Troy’s hand moves to the back of his head, his fingers digging in. His mouth falls open, and he licks into Tom’s. Both pushes and draws him into a deep kiss. It’s enough for Tom to feel himself getting carried away. To let go, slowly. This isn’t the time, or the place… but then, there are no such things for this.

He keeps stroking Troy’s thigh. The new suit, smooth – warm with him. He kisses the side of his face, his neck. There is something irresistible in just the nearness of him. It’s not that he hasn’t thought of it since he agreed to help him with the case. He has. It’s that he didn’t think he would… He presses a kiss behind Troy’s ear, slow, open-mouthed, and for a moment he stays there. Breathes him in. Feels him. Until he can feel Troy turn into his touch, pulling him in again.

The phone rings. Over in the living room.

Tom freezes. Troy jerks away, nearly toppling the chair, and they quickly move apart. Tom looks at him, stunned, and for a moment he can see the guilt, as surely as he feels his own. Not the kind that comes with regret. It’s the kind that fears. The guilt of getting caught. The phone is still ringing – he will get to it in a minute. He puts his hands on the table where the files are spread out, still, and gets up.

He closes the door behind him. The ringing stops before he’s at the phone, but he glances at the number – her parents’ landline – and immediately calls back. 

“Tom? I thought you’ve gone out.” 

Joyce is on the other end. She’s still there, and he can tell by the tone of her voice that at least there is no emergency. He can hear the TV in the background, and someone talking.

“No, I’m in,” he says. “Something wrong, Joyce?”

“Oh, no. Just started on supper. You know, I was thinking. They’re having a small parade here in the village tomorrow, and…” 

She lowers her voice, and he can tell she’s moving. Probably where they can’t hear her. The call is about her parents, then… 

“Perhaps I should stay until tomorrow,” she says. “Dad’s been really looking forward to it. I could go with them and help Mum. Might be a nice change.” 

“What kind of parade?” he asks.

“Something to do with the War. He asked me to brush his old uniform.”

“It’s always the War, with their generation…” 

A strange relief mingles with the guilt. He begins to walk around the room, turning on the reading lights. 

“It’s just one night,” Joyce says. “And I already have my bag here…”

“Ah, you do…” He pauses. “Sounds like a good idea.”

“You don’t mind?”

“No, of course not.”

Tom pinches the bridge of his nose. She does this, from time to time, staying over. There’s no reason why she shouldn’t do it today.

“There’s roast beef in the fridge,” she says. “Are you and Gavin still working?”

“Almost done,” Tom says. “It’s a difficult one, but he’s figuring it out.”

“Well, he’s learnt from you.”

Briefly, he can hear her talk to her parents. The TV is running in the background, then she gets back on the phone. 

“I’ll be back in the afternoon,” she says. “You’ll be alright, won’t you?”

“Yes.” Something in him wavers. Pauses. She shouldn’t be making it this easy for him. Or perhaps, this hard… “Have fun at the parade.”

“We will,” she says. “See you tomorrow.”

He puts the phone back on the charger, then walks over to the window. It’s raining heavily, still, and a blue dusk is settling in the street. A familiar quiet, the kind he sometimes finds hard to come by. 

He looks out into the driveway. He didn’t see it before, but Troy’s car has one tire on the lawn. He wonders about himself, more than he does about him. Had he really been this close, all along? Just a touch, just an opportunity away, from giving in to it… even now? 

There is a small thought, in the back of his mind. Perhaps he ought to have gotten himself that Rover 3 Litre. The one he took for a ride last year, in city grey. Or he could have taken that sabbatical, right after Cully moved out. Perhaps, if he had permitted himself a little more. Indulged himself more. It would be different. 

It’s not that. He knows it… It’s not the thrill, not that sudden, stolen rush of having something he cannot have. Not with Troy. If it were, everything would be so much simpler. 

Back in the kitchen, he finds Troy on his feet, leaning against the counter. He gives Tom a questioning glance, but there is no need to tell him anything about the call. Troy draws himself up. His gaze is alert, and his expression softens somewhat as he watches Tom. Without a word, they share a small smile. It occurs to him that Troy must be thinking it’s another goodbye. That it might be time for him to go. It’s the way he looks at him, as if readying himself, and Tom thinks that perhaps it would be best to let him go. 

But when he steps over to Troy, it’s not what he says to him, softly, by his ear.

“We have a little more time.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mature content.

“How much more…?” Troy asks. There is a slight rasp to it.

“Until tomorrow.”

Tom takes a step back. His gaze trails over Troy – the quiet tension of his posture. His eyes widen, and his lips part slightly. It’s different now, from before. Though perhaps, not that different. Tom places his hand on his shoulder, stroking lightly with his thumb. His fingers curl around the back of Troy’s neck, and he waits as Troy shifts closer, slowly. 

He’s used to taking it for granted. All the little ways they know each other, can read each other. In this, too. It’s in the way Troy moves closer, watching his reaction before he lowers his head a little and kisses him. He knows, Tom thinks. Knows that despite what’s come before this, and the times Tom has said no to him… this time, he won’t. 

He looks at Troy, and he sees that wavering again. The hesitation, just before Troy leans in. Nudges his mouth open and licks into him, as if to continue the same thing. Tom kisses him back. His hand drops to Troy’s stomach, and in the slow in-betweens, bit by bit, he pulls his shirt loose. He slides his hand under, up Troy’s stomach that’s warm, somewhat sticky, along the trail of hair. His shirt rides up, and Tom pauses, just for a second, before pulling him close. 

Troy’s arms tighten around him, and as the kiss drifts apart, they stand together in a hard embrace. Nothing more. The restless warmth of Troy’s body against his own. Tom breathes against his neck where he can smell him, smell the day on him, his taste. The guilt is still there. But it doesn’t change anything, doesn’t make any difference. He gets to have this, not because he wants it… and he wants it… but because of what _it_ really is. Because of what _they are_. This thing he's been treating like a sordid little affair.

He kisses the side of Troy’s neck. Eases his grip and kisses the same spot again, open-mouthed. There is a small, guttural breath from Troy, and Tom can feel his fingers curl into his back. And this, too, tells him something. He leans into Troy, dragging his mouth over the side of his neck, and after a moment they slowly shift, balance tipping as Troy settles back against the counter. 

Tom presses his body to him. He doesn’t see Troy’s reaction, but he can feel him go still, and he slightly pulls away again. For a few moments he can hear his own breathing in the quiet, louder than Troy’s, then he feels Troy’s hand, reaching up into his hair. It’s a harder touch than he expects, and he lets his head fall back, relishing it. What if they had done this, he thinks, a long time ago? What if they had given it to it, somewhere along the way… 

His hips brush against Troy’s. Sink forward, and through that small, tentative motion, he can feel him. Barely, pressing into his hip. He thinks he heard an expletive, warm and quick, by his ear, and he repeats the motion. He won’t touch him – knows better than to touch him now. But he feels him, again, and out of nowhere a low, hot feeling of possession washes over him. He brushes tight against Troy, and this time, and as he moves back, Troy follows. Stirs and just for a moment moves with him. 

Slowly Tom starts grinding against him. He hears the steady whisper of their clothes. Troy’s breath, quick by his ear, and Tom braces himself with one arm, finds his way into the movement. Perhaps it would have been better to go upstairs, after all… He feels Troy getting hard, the hushed pressure of him, right there. Himself, too. He thinks of touching him, wrapping his hand around him, around them… but not here. Not now. Troy slides down, just a bit, and he starts meeting him with small, jerky thrusts.

Tom shifts, until he’s flush against him. It’s a quick, heady pleasure as he rubs them together, once, twice. Not as strong as he remembers the feeling – it was a long time ago – but it surges, stretches through him as he keeps going, rocking against Troy, and there are moments when it grips him, fully, strongly. Troy is clinging to him. Hard, leaking, and again Tom thinks it can’t be enough, this… it was never going to be enough, this one stolen time…

Arousal pulls tight in him, then loosens again. He can’t quite hold it, like a slow breath it comes and goes. But there is a shudder against him that tells him Troy is getting there. Tom turns his head, an irresistible, dim thought – to look at him. And he catches his expression, loose, unguarded, just for a moment, the way his mouth stands open, twitching. Tom pushes against him, hard, with that same feeling of possession, of belonging, too, and a warmth he doesn’t want, not now, not while he’s still trying to… 

His hand feels over Troy’s sweat-slick back, and he sees their reflection in the window, bright against the dark garden – Troy’s bunched-up shirt, his head against Tom’s, swaying lightly… There are hoarse huffs coming from him as he is pumping himself hard and stuttering against Tom. It’s arresting. Leaving Tom with a tight, sudden pleasure. Troy falls forward a little, and he comes, burying himself against Tom with a bit-off moan. Breathlessly, quite still, until the last hits of it make him buck forward. 

Tom keeps rocking back against him, still hard, still wanting that pleasure. A strange sense of completion begins to set in. Vicariously, bit by bit. Troy blinks at him. With half-closed eyes and a fresh, heated ease, and Tom can’t help a sharp sigh, thinking of what he’d do to him, if this weren’t what it is – if Troy weren’t… and he leans away, slowly. Steps back. Troy’s fly is still straining, damp, and Tom lets his gaze linger, waiting for him to catch his breath. 

He presses his shoulder and steers him towards the guest bathroom – “You ought to look at least somewhat presentable for dinner…” Then he goes upstairs, splashes some cold water into his face. Sitting down on the bathtub, he cups himself through his trousers. Still somewhat hard. A few light squeezes, then gets up again. 

Back in the kitchen, he opens a window. Takes out the roast beef and the bottle of wine he opened yesterday. His thoughts are drifting with a comfortable heaviness, even as he removes the tinfoil – with a small sting of guilt. He is looking forward to it. Despite the guilt. Despite the embarrassment that’s sure to come. He is looking forward to sitting down with him for dinner… the way they used to. Almost the way they used to.

He hears Troy’s steps, and then, something he doesn’t expect, the front door. It opens and then falls shut again with a thud. Tom steps into the hall and looks out into the driveway where the lights have gone on. He sees Troy as he hurries past the Rover, over to his own car. Keys in hand. 

It doesn’t surprise Tom – not quite. 

It’s caught up with him, Tom thinks. The thing he seems to have managed to push to the back of his mind – the fear. He knows what will happen next, that Troy will get into his car and take off. Not because he wants to be somewhere else. But because he can’t stay here. 

His files are still in the kitchen, Tom remembers. He’ll need them. It means even if he goes now, he’ll return – perhaps in a few hours. Perhaps tomorrow. What Tom doesn’t know is what will happen after that. If he’ll come back again, at all… after this.

The lights on Troy’s car blink as he unlocks it. Just as he is about to get in, he stops in his tracks. He stands with his back to the house. His shoulders bend forward and his hands curl into fists by his side. It’s stopped raining, but the wind is still strong, whipping up his jacket as he stands there. A feeling of loss stretches through Tom as he watches him. Strangely definite, this time. 

The car lights blink again, and Troy turns back towards the house, slowly. He comes back, head hanging, and Tom opens the door and lets him in. He is dishevelled, pale, and for a moment he just stands in the hall, without meeting Tom’s eye.

“It’s alright…” Tom says quietly. “Go pack up your files. I’ll wait here.”

It’s not the kind of goodbye he wanted. Not what he thought it would be. He steps aside, so Troy can go into kitchen, but Troy doesn’t move. 

“I’m not – you know...” There is quiet panic in his voice. “I don’t… I’ve never –"

“I know,” Tom says.

What else would he say – what would be a useful thing to say?

“But with you…” Troy says. “It’s different, with you. And I don’t know why, but… even if I go away… if I stay away, it won’t change a thing.”

He glances behind him where the front door is still ajar, and he pushes it shut. 

Tom waits. It’s something Troy has said before, in other words. In other ways, too, and Tom realizes he’s never been quite ready to hear it.

“ _This_ … I want this.”


	10. Chapter 10

_This…_

He is relieved to see that Troy doesn’t look as if he’d about to bolt again. He is tense. His neck is stiff, and his shoulders bend forward. But he’s not about to run. 

“Come on,” Tom says. “Let’s eat dinner…”

It takes a moment, then Troy nods, and slowly he lets go of the door. He follows Tom back into the kitchen. There is the smell of roast and a chill from the night air that’s coming in through the window. Tom closes it, and he tends to the plates. Humming quietly as he takes out the potatoes and veg – he’s not hungry. He doubts Troy is. But then, it’s a return to normal, something they can both do with.

By the table, Troy is putting away the files, shoving them back into his briefcase. Tom turns his head back slightly. Pauses, keenly aware of Troy’s fidgety movements. Of that small frown. Keenly aware, too, of the feel of him, the still-fresh impression of it. His grip, hard, clinging. How little it took to… the thought gives Tom a small frisson. He schools his features and glances back over his shoulder. Troy is still pale, but he’s beginning to look like himself again.

Two full plates, and still plenty of food left. Even now, Tom thinks, she keeps on cooking for three. He turns on the microwave and pours them both a glass of wine, his usual Bordeaux. They share a look before they drink, and there is a hint of it, again. That feeling of habit. All those evenings. The two of them, here, trading stories, going over cases… There’s something about the way Troy holds his glass. He’s never been much of a wine drinker, but he’s bringing it up to his nose, smelling it. Tom wonders if it’s something he’s picked up more recently, in the city, and then he realizes. Troy is savouring it. 

The microwave chimes behind Tom, but he still stands there, watching Troy. It’s a small, feverish tenderness. Something… almost nauseating. He knows they wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been for that one moment. The one time he got carried away, when it all changed – the evening before Troy left. When the thought of letting him go made Tom think, just for a moment, that perhaps he couldn’t... It’s been there since. With each goodbye that followed, each time he’s seen him, and this is the thing he cannot stomach, not the guilt, not the embarrassment, but _this_ … 

He empties his glass and pours himself more wine. He can’t feel it yet, not the slightest buzz. The plates are steaming as he puts them on the table, and they sit down together, the same places as before. 

“Dig in,” Tom says, and he can see a familiar ease, a glint in Troy’s eyes – he is hungry, after all. For a while they eat in silence. The roast beef is overcooked, dry. At least it’s good meat, and the potatoes and veg are fresh. When he looks up again, he finds Troy, chewing heartily and cutting away at a slice with his elbows out.

“Wha--?” Troy looks at him, mid-bite. A bit of colour has returned to his face. “’s very good.”

“I can tell.” Tom can’t help a smile.

“Haven’t had anything like it in ages…”

“There’s plenty more.”

His mother would cook for him, Tom remembers, once or twice a week. Home cooked meals must have been rare since he’s left. He asks Troy about the cafeteria food, if it’s any good – “Alright, except for the vegetarian stuff…” – and with that, they go back to talking. Quietly, almost comfortably. He refills Troy’s plate, and like most of the time, Troy finishes before him. 

By the time they get to the toffee pudding, they’re talking about the court case. Troy’s days in the stand. The intricacies of the trial. Problems he’s run into with his predecessor’s work. Tom mostly listens, content enough to see him liven up. There is a sense of pride, too. Like every junior inspector, he has a lot to learn, but he’s growing into the job. Quickly, with good instinct. 

Tom opens another bottle of wine. There is a light buzz now, pleasant, and next to him Troy stretches back into his chair with a long yawn.

“What do you have planned for tomorrow?” Tom asks.

“The witness,” Troy says. “I’m seeing her for lunch. Bit of pressure, see if I can get her to admit the lie.”

“Good. The sooner she does, the better.”

“She’s probably trying to cover up something else. People lie for all sorts of weird reasons.”

“Could be. The question is, is it damning to her character, because then…”

“…we’d be in hot water, yeah.”

Tom turns his glass between his fingers, slowly. 

“Told your mother you’re coming?” he asks.

“Called her on my way,” Troy says. “No point in telling her ahead of time, she’d just be fussing.”

There is a silence, and Tom looks at him. If things had gone differently, he is sure he’d have let him stay. Given him the guest room upstairs. He was thinking about it, right before Troy ran out, but he’s not going to bring it up now. He wants him… of course he does. But not as much as he wants him here. Not as much as he simply wants him to stay. And it’s strange. Quite strange, still, to be wanting something he’s been so used to having. 

“Getting late,” Troy says. “I better get going…” 

“She’ll be happy to see you,” Tom says.

“Yeah. All of us having moved away and that…” 

There is a pause, and Troy shifts, pushing his glass to the middle of the table.

“Give her my best,” Tom says, about to get up. “And keep me posted on how things go with your witness.” 

Troy’s hand settles on his arm. There is a flicker in his eyes, half-closed and tired as they are, and he leans forward. Kisses him. It’s a quiet, brief, and Tom can taste the wine on him, sharper than it is. Troy pulls back slightly, and Tom can tell there is something he wants to say. That he can’t seem to get out. His head dips forward, slowly, to the crook of Tom’s neck, and Tom runs a hand along his side. Around to his back where he’s warm under the jacket, slightly ticklish. They stay like this, a bit longer. 

It’s outside by the car that Troy does say it. They are standing in the driveway, in the damp cold, and the street is quiet and dark around them. Troy throws his briefcase on the backseat and turns to Tom. He keeps his voice down.

“I could come down more often…”

Tom glances around, then back at him. He waits.

“Come down and see you,” Troy says. “There are weekends when…” 

His voice trails off, and he doesn’t finish it. It’s not for the first time he’s suggesting something like this, and he looks as if he is expecting the same answer he’s gotten before. Tom watches him, blinking against the light by the door. 

“Fridays,” he says quietly.

He doesn’t need to say more. He sees Troy’s surprise, that wide, lopsided smile, and something loosens in him. As if a hard tension has been suddenly cut. Troy gets into his car, grinning at him through the open window. Saying he’ll call. It’s not like the times before. Tom watches him back out of the driveway and into the street, narrowly missing the Rover’s rear light. 

It’s no goodbye.


	11. Chapter 11

He’s been dozing off. He feels around for his phone as it keeps buzzing, it’s by the armrest, and he stretches over and picks it up.

“It’s me…” 

“Gavin…” In the brief silence Tom can hear the wind blowing on the other end. He blinks awake, glancing at his watch. “Did something happen?”

“Just a problem with the car. Mechanic’s here, shouldn’t be long now.” Troy pauses, and there is a clatter, the sound of metal. “I’m 30 minutes away, give or take.”

“You alright?” Tom pushes up his reading glasses and sits up. On his way here, he’s listened to the traffic report – there were no warnings of ice and snow. 

“Yeah, it’s nothing,” Troy says. “A flock of bloody sheep, in the middle of the road, and when I tried to drive around… hold on -- ”

He is talking to the mechanic. With the wind rushing there are just a few fragments Tom catches, and it sounds like they are about to tow the car. He folds up the newspaper – he’ll finish it later. He hears Troy, louder now, something about being careful, then he’s back on the phone.

“Got stuck in the ditch, did you?” Tom says.

There is a brief shudder on the other end. “The M40’s jammed, all the way. I took an early exit… didn’t know I’d end up in sheep country.”

Tom leans back with a small smile. Even with the delay, Troy is fairly early. He must have gotten someone to cover the last leg of his shift. It’s a special day, with the trial of his triple murder having just closed – he must have been eager to get out of there. Probably dying to tell him about the verdict. Tom, too, saw to it that he'd get off early.

“So, this morning in court…?” he says. 

“Guilty on all charges.” 

Troy’s voice carries a grin, Tom knows it, and he knows the feeling, too, the elation that comes with getting the right kind of verdict. The verdict the case deserves – that the crime and victims deserve. He got a message from Troy earlier with the good news, and though it didn’t quite surprise Tom, the way things have been going, he still let out a breath of relief. 

“What did he get?” he asks.

“Life, for all three.” 

“Well, congratulations.”

“Clear as day," Troy says. "Don’t even think he’s going to appeal. And even if he does…”

“He might.” Tom pauses, thinks about it. “Regardless of that, you’ve done a good job tightening up the case. A very good job.”

“Think I have, yeah.” 

The grin is still there, along with an excitement that’s almost short of breath, and Tom can see him, freezing in his best coat by the country road, content in a way that’s rare in life. And some of it echoes through Tom, reminding him of old victories, both his own, a while back, as well as the ones they’ve shared. It’s been a lot of work on Troy’s part. It’s good that he’s gotten the result he has. 

“Hold on,” Troy says. He is talking aside, still to the mechanic, giving instructions. “Tom? The car’s sorted, I’m on my way.”

“Alright.”

Tom hangs up and slides his phone back to the armrest. For a moment he leans back again, closing his eyes. It’s a comfortable sofa. The place is warming up, and it’s quiet as always. The only road here ends by the cottage, and the next house is miles away. He picks up the paper, then puts it down again. The judge isn’t really the type, he thinks, for a big sentencing speech. But the closing statements would have been interesting.

The afternoon sun is falling in through the window and he walks over and looks out. The pine trees in the back of the garden – the last time they were still heavy with snow. Come spring he could bring some of his fishing gear. There is a small pond nearby, the agent has shown it to him. He walks into the kitchen and takes the cover off the capsule machine. He fills up the water, takes out a cup. He doesn’t share Troy’s enthusiasm for the thing, but it does make some decent coffee. 

It's routine, almost. An afternoon, every two or three weeks. Joyce is at her parents’ and he leaves the station early, leaves the paperwork in his drawer for next week. The guilt is there. Of course it is, even now. But it never gets strong enough – it’s never as strong as what he feels, first thing in the morning when it’s one of these Fridays. The thing he feels when he gets up, knowing he’ll be coming here. 

The coffee is ready, steaming, and he takes it back into the living room. He sits down on the sofa again, stretches out his legs. A steady warmth is rising up from the heater. Now and then, he arranges it so he can stay until Saturday. He likes those evenings. Likes the small embarrassment when they put on their pyjamas, right before bed. Doesn’t matter what they've been doing before that, it's still somewhat strange. Almost a surprise, as they look at each other across the bed. He is the first one to get up in the morning, and when Troy comes down at last, he hands him a cup of coffee. It’s good, in its own way. It’s enough. More than he has any right to want.

Then he remembers the last time. They got a little carried away just before heading home. He remembers sitting here, with Troy’s head on his stomach while both of them were catching their breaths. He was stroking Troy’s hair, slowly. It was sunny outside and there were blocks of snow falling from the roof, and he wanted… 

He hears the car outside, rolling up to the house, then the dull screech of the brakes. Out in the hall, Troy kicks off his shoes and then he’s there, cold, flushed, grinning. Still in his coat, he sits down next to Tom. He’s got his weekend bag and his notebook – the notes from the trial. Tom reaches over. Cups the side of his face. 

“What?” Troy watches him, somewhat surprised, and while he can barely sit still, he leans into Tom’s touch.

“It’s good you’re here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! <3 
> 
> It’s been a lot of fun and a lot of work writing this, and though the last chapter was the easiest one to write it was the hardest one to finish… I’ll be sticking with this pairing a bit longer tho. I love them, and I wanna try and write the Troy Returns AU no one asked for, including me, but THE HEART WANTS WHAT IT WANTS.
> 
> Thank you [chaos monkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaos_monkey/pseuds/chaos_monkey) and [tea for lupin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_for_lupin/pseuds/tea_for_lupin) for your lovely feedback!!!!!!! It blew my mind. you’re both such amazing writers, it was wild to have you as, equally amazing, readers!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! This is mostly a writing exercise, any sort of feedback is very welcome!


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